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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27472195">to the bone</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluehorses/pseuds/bluehorses'>bluehorses</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>First Kiss, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Post-Episode: s15e18 Despair, Repression, Season/Series 15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:08:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,229</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27472195</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluehorses/pseuds/bluehorses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean showers for a long time, until the water’s turned cold and his skin’s stopped itching. He towels his hair dry in front of the mirror. He brushes his teeth with his index finger. Eventually he figures he should just rip the band-aid off—so he opens the bathroom door again, boxers and t-shirt sticking to the damp spots on his back.</p><p>“I borrowed your clothes,” Cas says apologetically. “I hope that’s alright.”</p><p>Dean goes still.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>718</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>to the bone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the end, he tracked it to the basement of an Illinois church.</p><p>You wanna know how hard it is to interpret occult symbolism single handedly? When you can’t even ask your Wikipedia freak of a brother for help? Yeah, hard. Stupid hard. Whatever gene Sam has that makes him crave the experience of cramming himself into a library booth for sixteen hours at a time, Dean does not have it. He has whatever the opposite of that is.</p><p>”I <em> said</em>, can I help you?” the desk clerk drawls. Dean clears his throat and tosses the card over.</p><p>“Two queens,” he mutters. </p><p>Ellis Ripley, born ‘79 in Dallas, is the last man standing of the five he started out with. His final wad of cash disappeared forty miles back at a gas station. The payment takes its sweet time going through—long enough that Dean’s mind starts racing, ‘cause there’s no way roughing it in his car is gonna work, not <em> now</em>—but then a key card gets slapped down on the counter next to his crumpled receipt, and the woman behind the desk pops her gum for a final time, eyeing him as she leans back in her creaking office chair.</p><p>“Check out’s at 10,” she says. Dean nods, just once. She’s barely done talking by the time he’s out the door. </p><p>There’s a sigh from behind him, followed by the familiar flick of someone opening a magazine. If Sam were here he’d be giving him one of those patented wrinkled-nose glares, probably a reproachful lecture involving the words <em> neanderthal </em> and <em> jerk, </em>but Sam isn’t here, and it’s getting dark in Illinois. Dean has a job to do.</p><p>Baby is right where he left her, hidden in the corner of the parking lot. Dean lets out a long breath. Runs his palm along the cool metal hood and stays there for a second.</p><p>It’s been a rough few weeks and a brutal goddamn slog, but he’s done with libraries and occultism for now. He’s traded them in for a new problem: one that sucks, objectively speaking, more ass than libraries and occultism ever have or will.</p><p>“Up and at ‘em, sleeping beauty,” he mutters, pulling the door open and climbing into the backseat. The body slumped against the opposite window doesn’t move. Looking at it is like a knife in Dean’s throat, pointed straight down, so he stops doing it.</p><p>Bodies are <em> heavy</em>. He’s known that since forever, but it’s starting to count more this side of forty. Dean tugs the one in front of him closer with mechanical efficiency, gets it slung at a decent angle over his shoulder, then glances both ways before hauling ass towards the dingy row of doors across the parking lot. His back has a lot of shit to say about the pace he picks. He grits his teeth and sticks to it.</p><p>The room’s cramped. There’s a heater wheezing in the corner and a fluorescent light which flickers dully when Dean tugs the cord. The sheets are white. Or… okay, they <em> were </em> white, most likely back when Sam was in diapers, and he actually wishes they weren’t, because all the usual stains that come free-of-charge with motel mattresses have been magnified by a hundred, and he doesn’t want— he wanted— </p><p>Dean shuts his eyes. He opens them again and crosses the room so he can lay the body down on the bed furthest from the door. He winces, rubbing the back of his neck, before moving closer to make sure it’s fully on the sheets. Forces himself to tuck two fingers under the chin and count down from sixty, then back up.</p><p>His phone buzzes in his pocket.</p><p>“What?” Dean mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.</p><p>“Don’t <em> what </em> me,” Sam says. “Did it work? Are you—”</p><p>“It’s…” Dean glances at the bed, chewing his bottom lip. “Y’know. Taking a while.”</p><p>“Dean,” Sam says quietly—in that awful, careful tone of voice that means he’s about to start saying things, or asking questions that make Dean’s stomach twist up, maybe both—Dean cuts him off with a cough, scrubbing his palm across his face again.</p><p>“Look, I,” he says, eloquently. “I, uh. I’m beat. So—”</p><p>“Dean,” Sam warns.</p><p>“So I’m gonna shower,” Dean continues, louder, “order a shitton of pizza, watch some TV—”</p><p>“<em>Dean—</em>” </p><p>“Signal’s crapping out on ya, Sammy,” Dean says over him with false cheer, and chucks his phone onto the unused bed. He can see the texts come in, one after the other, before the screen’s even had time to blink off. Looking at them makes him itch. Hell, everything itches: his feet, his shoulders, his arms. The dried salt tracks on his cheeks have turned tacky. Dean rubs his eyes again, but it doesn’t help that much.</p><p>He glances down at the bed.</p><p>“Don’t move,” he tells the body—and immediately regrets telling it anything, because hope is a bitch. Dean doesn’t have time. All he’s got planned is a shower, shoveling hot food down his throat, and as much caffeine as it takes to keep his ass in gear ‘til the night’s over. <em> Real </em> stuff<em>. </em>Helpful stuff. He’ll leave the hope to Sam.</p><p>     </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I want it on the record,” Sam said flatly, trailing him to the kitchen, “that this is stupid. And it was your idea.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yeah, the record heard you the first fifty friggin’ times,” Dean muttered. He flicked on the light. “Are you in or not?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sam raised a skeptical eyebrow. Dean shrugged. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Look,” he protested, his arms spread wide. “If you’ve got a better plan, be my guest, go ahead and share it with the class—“ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Shut up,” Sam said. “What do you need?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Sparknotes,” Dean said dryly. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Dean.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “That Orpheus dude,” Dean cut in, way too quick. He leaned back against the counter and tried to look anywhere other than his brother’s face. “I dunno. It’s stupid, but I keep on… we’ve found back doors to everywhere, Sam. Purgatory’s practically a day trip for us at this point—” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Orpheus was a myth,” Sam pointed out. Dean dragged a hand across his eyes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yeah, I got that,” he said curtly, “I’m not saying we should track down some mythical rando, I’m sayin’—” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Right there, something dawned on Sam’s face. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You want to go after him.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He said it slowly, like he was testing the words out. His brow furrowed in that familiar way, the one Dean had been able to recognize for as long as he could remember: the frown which meant Sam was following his intuition like a map, putting the pieces together on the fly. Dean scuffed the floor with the sole of his foot. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Like I said, if you’ve got a better idea...” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sam watched him quietly.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “We’ve gotta try,” Dean muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right?” </em>
</p><p>                       </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The truth is, Dean’s a natural at sacrifice. Giving yourself up is easy: the secret is not thinking about it too hard. Don’t panic, just <em> do</em>. Take the bullet and go. Sometimes he wonders if he has an unfair advantage—selling your soul while your baby brother rots in a motel room down the road, that’s sort of a head start in this kind of thing. If he ever hesitated before, he hasn’t since. You need someone to jump into hell headfirst, then walk out in front of an eighteen wheeler, all on the vague premise of getting something back in return—Dean’s your guy. Even when he knows the results won’t justify the means, he’ll do it anyway. It's the closest thing he’s got to a guarantee.</p><p>He tracked it to the basement of an Illinois church. Not too close to Pontiac, but close enough to make him think that for an ancient-cosmic-whatever, the Empty has a sick sense of humor. He’d stowed his car someplace she couldn’t get towed and left a note for Sam on the front seat. No guns, only old school tactics: a bag of salt in his pocket and Ruby’s knife on his hip.</p><p>Dean had been ready. Hell, he’d been <em> willing</em>. And now he’s here, crammed in a crappy motel shower with water spraying down on his bowed head, alive and whole for another day with nothing to show for it. Not empty handed, but pretty damn close. </p><p>“Why couldn’t you just stay put ‘til I got there, huh?” he mutters, staring at the whorls of dirt circling the drain. Then he bites his tongue, hard, and squeezes his eyes shut.</p><p>That’s for later, he reminds himself. Put that crap in a box and stow it.</p><p>Dean showers for a long time, until the water’s turned cold and his skin’s stopped itching. He towels his hair dry in front of the mirror. He brushes his teeth with his index finger. Eventually he figures he should just rip the band-aid off—so he opens the bathroom door again, boxers and t-shirt sticking to the damp spots on his back.</p><p>“I borrowed your clothes,” Cas says apologetically. “I hope that’s alright.”</p><p>Dean goes still.</p><p>He’s suddenly aware of a hundred small sounds. A dripping pipe from behind the wall, the heater’s whine, muffled voices and a door slamming somewhere outside. His ears are ringing. Cas steps closer and frowns, tilts his head the particular way Dean’s seen a thousand times over; he can’t watch that, so his eyes dart to the threadbare carpet. He wants to clench his fists but his hands… his hands aren’t— </p><p>“Dean,” Cas says gently. Dean shakes his head. He retreats a few steps, stumbling, ‘til his back thuds against the bathroom door.</p><p>“You’re up,” he gets out. “That’s… good.”</p><p>It doesn’t make sense that it can hurt, hearing someone say your name. Dean’s got a voicemail on his phone from two years ago, Cas asking for a lift back from a library in some small town Dean’s forgotten the name of—all the times he’s heard it, it’s never stabbed him in the gut like this. There’s some weird psychology word for it, probably. Sam would know what it is.</p><p>“Sam,” he hears someone say. “I should… I better call him, let him know you’re—”</p><p>“Dean,” Cas repeats. He takes another step forward, boxing Dean in against the door—there’s a joke there somewhere, maybe a cheap line about personal space—but Dean can’t find it. It’s taking all his self control to keep the sounds in his throat from crawling out. He swallows, shoving them down in one go.</p><p><em> Say something, </em>his brain hisses.</p><p>“That’s my shirt,” he croaks, stupidly.</p><p>The corners of Cas’s mouth tilt up.</p><p>“Yes,” he agrees. “I’m… borrowing it. As I said.”</p><p>With any luck, their big blowout fight will happen tonight. They can get it out the way while he still feels like crap, everybody can air their grievances, yell some shit they’re not proud of, then retreat to lick their wounds ‘til morning. Twelve hours from now they’ll be on the road back to Kansas. He won’t have to think about it.</p><p>“Look.” Dean clears his throat. “I tried, all right? I’m sorry.”</p><p>Cas frowns at him.</p><p>“For what?”</p><p>“You know damn well what,” Dean snaps.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> Church was a strong word. It had four walls of weathered clapboard and a roof that was long gone, small and squat enough that Dean thought it was a barn, at first—but no, church. Apparently. Tucked away at the back of a fallow cornfield barely two hundred yards from the highway. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The cellar, like the dusty land records in the Rowe Public Library had promised, was marked by a hatch on the church’s left flank. The hatch, in turn, was marked by a pile of cigarette butts and dented beer cans. </em></p><p><em>
Dean wrinkled his nose. He nudged them into the grass with the toe of his boot— </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And reeled backwards when his leg went straight down. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Shit—goddamnit, ow—”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> His knee sparked like rain on a live wire. Dean did a odd, hopping jig on one foot, hissing through his teeth, and spared a wry thought for any poor suckers watching him from the highway. He flexed his ankle experimentally. He winced and tried again. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It had rained in Sheridan the night before. Dean knew because the first downpour caught him by surprise, driving back to the library after sundown. Back then it’d got on his nerves, but the rotten wood was softer than he expected. Flakes of it stuck under his fingernails as he pried the boards apart. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You’re buyin’ me dinner after this, you sonofabitch,” Dean muttered. He wiped his hands on his jeans, gave his handiwork a once-over, and lowered himself in. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The cellar had a weird smell. Something like grave dirt, but older. It had a low ceiling, low enough that he had to hunch his shoulders, and it was empty: anything inside long since rotted down to studs. Dean flicked his lighter once, twice, and squinted around the room. Bare damp floor. A couple of support beams, definitely not supporting anything. Dust motes. And there, on the opposite wall…  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sam owed him twenty bucks. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Told you,” Dean said. “Back door.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The problem with occult-types, in Dean’s opinion, was this: the only thing they loved more than making stuff up was being vague. Anything they didn’t know, they lied their asses off about—anything they did know, they never said straight. They had to layer the crap on first, throw a bunch of metaphors in for kicks, then publish a book that sold three copies per century. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Most of them talked about a ritual. Blood, candles, a little Latin, nothing Dean hadn’t done a hundred times over. A couple said all you had to do was ask. A journal from Salem strongly implied trying either of those things would make him drop dead on the spot. Dean had prepared for every outcome, just in case. Hopefully it wasn’t the third. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He cleared his throat. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Hey,” he called into the dark. “You, uh… you listening to me? My name’s Dean Winchester. I’m here for Castiel.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Something flickered behind him, just beyond his line of sight. Dean spun on his heel. His lighter sputtered out. He swallowed and flicked it again. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I know you’ve made deals, bitch,” he goaded, louder. “Greta Ulrik, 1695, John Palmer, 1817, those names ring any bells?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The back wall rippled like water around a stone. Dean let out a laugh. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, I thought so.” He cleared his throat. “Look, we both know how this goes. You let me in, I take a walk around the block, I’m outta your hair. And hey—I look back, you get both of us. Two for the price of one.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The wall rippled again. Brighter, slower. Dean went very still. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “The hell do you mean, no?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Another flicker—opposite side, this time, swerving across his periphery like a right hook. Dean ducked on instinct and a fierce, sudden fury flared awake, the kind that left his hands crackling with the urge to punch something, strangle it, make something hurt and bleed even half as much as him— </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dean tipped his head back, eyes shut. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You gotta let me try,” he murmured. “Please.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The cellar wall was dull, dry earth. Nothing moved. </em>
</p><p>                       </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Dean,” Cas says. He reaches out like it’s no big deal, brow furrowed, brushing his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone. Dean lets out a strange, shuddering breath that feels too big for his lungs. “Are you hurt?”</p><p>Dean swallows. His eyes flick between the bed where the body was and the spot where Cas is standing, solid and warm in front of him, barely two feet away—alert, breathing, whole. He’s not bleeding. He isn’t walking out the door. He’s wearing a shirt Dean’s owned since 2006 and his hair is tousled from sleep.</p><p>“Am I hurt?” he echoes. He’s startled by the bark of laughter that bursts out, how drained he feels afterwards. “Am I—are you kidding me? You’re the one that <em> died</em>, jackass, why the hell are you askin’ me? I should be…”</p><p>He ducks away from Cas’s hands and the warmth of his body, shuddering, and inhales. In, then out. </p><p>“I should be saying that,” he finishes, hoarsely. “To you. So.”</p><p>The air feels colder away from the door. Cas’s eyes follow him, but his body doesn’t move. Dean’s hands hurt. It’d help to hold something between them—a shirt, or a towel—twist it up and force the tension out. A safer, cleaner outlet than punching something. He keeps his arms by his sides, staring at the floor again. His fingers twitch and ache.</p><p>“Look, just lay it on me,” he says. “Whatever you gotta say, man, just say it. Get it out.”</p><p>“Dean—”</p><p>“I’d be angry.” Dean lifts his chin defiantly to meet Cas’s eyes head on. “There. That make you feel better? Hell, I <em> was </em> angry, that year we… when I found out Sam didn’t look for me, that was rough. All right? So I get it, but you gotta understand, I <em> tried</em>, you—you don’t—”</p><p>“Dean,” Cas says, cutting him off for the billionth time in ten minutes, and his voice finally has enough bite to make Dean’s mouth snap shut.</p><p>He shakes his head. When he moves one hand to wipe his face, Cas’s fingers find his wrist; before he has time to shrug them off, Cas is advancing closer again, pressing him to the bathroom door, and then they’re back where they started.</p><p>“Why do you think I’m angry with you?” Cas demands. Concerned, curious, soft and low. Dean’s heard that voice from him before, a lifetime ago. <em> You don’t think you deserve to be saved. </em>He tips his head back to the stained ceiling, eyes squeezed shut.</p><p>“Because—! I… Jesus, Cas, ‘cause I left you in that place, with no backup, and you—”</p><p>
  <em> You dragged yourself out of hell, alone, because you thought I wouldn’t show. </em>
</p><p>And it’s a good thing he did, since Dean lived up to expectations. Castiel knows him, and knows him better than most—he knows Dean’s defining quality, above all else, is breaking his word. He knew, so he adapted. That’s all.</p><p>                   </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> Dean’s throat was raw. He stared straight ahead. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The cellar wall was still. His shoulder ached where he’d body slammed it, his hands were sore from clawing at it, but whatever was lurking in the dirt, it was something beyond touch. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Come on.” Dean’s voice was a low rasp. “I can stay here all day, you sonofabitch.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The wall waited quietly. It didn’t move. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I was a demon for a while,” Dean pointed out. “You know that? Color contacts, crappy tattoo, asshole haircut, all of it—chances are there’s a part of me coming for you anyway. So how about you let me in early, skip the check in line, and I’ll—”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The cellar trembled with a sound like cracking stone. Dean jumped to his feet, unsteady, his heart thrumming. He spat out a mouthful of dust. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yeah,” he said, growing bolder, “yeah, you piece of shit, talk to me. Is that what you want?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Light roared from the back wall without warning. Dean ducked his head before he tried squinting at the blinding core of it again. There was a body slumped against the wall. There was a body sliding to the ground— </em>
</p><p>     </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“I was gonna come for you,” Dean says thickly. “I was gonna get you out—”</p><p>“I know.” Cas’s voice is urgent and low. “I’ve seen you grieve, Dean, I knew you’d try to… that’s why I did this. So you wouldn’t have to.”</p><p>Later, Dean decides, he’s gonna pick those words apart until he figures out what’s going on underneath. For now Cas has boxed him against the door and he's fixing him with that intent, unwavering look, the one that says, <em> trust me, listen to me—</em>and Dean is so tired. His body feels like it’s about to tap out.</p><p>He sways forward unsteadily and tips his forehead onto Cas’s shoulder. When Cas sighs, he can feel it reverberate.</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>Despite everything, Dean chokes on a laugh.</p><p>“Dude,” he says. “You’re the one who—” </p><p>“All I did,” Cas murmurs, “was what I had to. You had to live with it.” He ducks his nose into Dean’s hair. “In my experience, I can comfortably say which is worse.”</p><p>He’s warm and solid. He takes Dean’s weight without hesitating, shifting slightly to pull him closer with one hand on his back. No one touches Dean like this that often. His body’s always stiff when it happens. He thinks about that sometimes, sure, get himself in knots over it—but how the hell do you ask? <em> Who </em> do you ask? He quit one night stands a long time ago. Even if he hadn’t, this isn’t how you act with someone who's gonna leave the morning after.</p><p>He turns his head without lifting it 'til his nose bumps Cas’s collarbone. Here, in the warm hollow between Cas’s shoulder and his throat, it feels safe enough to keep his eyes closed. His lips graze the soft skin there briefly, unintentional; but if Cas minds, he doesn’t show it. He just sets his free hand in Dean’s hair—slow, almost, like it’s an experiment—and starts carding his fingers through it. Dean shudders, clawing at the front of Cas’s shirt and twisting it up in his fists. His eyes are stinging. His face feels over-hot.</p><p>“Sorry,” he grits out, trying to swallow the hitch. Cas just dips his head again, brushing his mouth over Dean’s temple. He doesn’t smell like something dead. Ghouls, revenants; you can smell it on them, this close, a telltale sticky-sweetness that always makes Dean's stomach turn. Cas smells like sleep and the spare clothes at the bottom of Dean's duffel.</p><p>“You don’t need to be,” Cas says. Dean pulls away so he can scrub his eyes with the palm of his hand, before Cas can see them.</p><p>“Yeah, well,” he mutters thickly. “I am.”</p><p>He already regrets letting go of him. He risks an upward glance, eyes flicking from Cas’s tousled hair to the painfully open expression on his face, the healthy flush on his skin. Angels don’t have pulses you can track, in Dean’s experience. They don’t sleep like the literal, actual dead for eight hours. Dean says it anyway, because he needs an answer from the only source on this he trusts. He needs to hear it out loud.</p><p>“You’re human,” he guesses, clearing his throat.</p><p>Cas inclines his head.</p><p>“....In a sense, yes.”</p><p>Dean swallows. Cas reaches out to touch his shoulder, his thumb stroking slow circles on his shirt sleeve; Dean tries to focus on that, on the heat emanating from it, but it’s hard when his whole body is thrumming with static.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. “You… Jesus Christ, Cas. I’m sorry.”</p><p><em> Your fault, </em> his conscience points out, <em> you didn’t yank him out of there in time</em>—but it’s like Cas knows, somehow, like he intuits what Dean needs just from the way he breathes. He squeezes Dean’s shoulder again, his eyes catching the blue-white gleam of a passing car’s headlights as they flit across the room. Dean swallows. <em> In a sense. </em></p><p>“I chose this,” Cas murmurs. Their noses brush when he ducks closer. “This is not an atonement, for the things I've done. I want to be here.”</p><p>Dean huffs out a laugh. It’s wet and thin.</p><p>“What, on earth?”</p><p>“Yes,” Cas says levelly. “With you.”</p><p>From a distance, Dean hears himself make a sound. It was a word, or trying to be—it gets stuck halfway and catches in his throat. Something’s trying to claw through his ribs and out his chest. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands so they’re stuck by his sides, balling into fists and uncurling again, over and over. Dean blinks hard, willing the burn behind his eyes to leave him alone.</p><p>“Cas,” he says. His voice cracks. From there it's like a fucked up chain reaction—shame spikes in his stomach, lurches into his throat, and makes it impossible to get out anything else. Cas cups his face, fingers curling gently against his jaw, coaxing him forward. Dean gives in once he’s close enough, burying his face in the crook of Cas’s neck again.</p><p>He’d follow him anywhere. Jesus, it terrifies him sometimes: into hell, out of it, you name it.</p><p>“Good things do happen, Dean,” Cas murmurs.</p><p>That startles a laugh out of him, a real one. Cas is smiling faintly when he pulls back, the way he does when he’s in on the joke, and it’s been a lot longer than six weeks since Dean last saw that happen.</p><p>He doesn’t know how the hell he managed it, looking back from the other side: two months in a reality without Cas in his orbit, a lifetime of the same emptiness stretched ahead of him. Dread rises so suddenly that Dean feels dizzy. He knocks his forehead on Cas’s chest again so he can breathe him in, folding his arms around his neck—Cas hesitates, just long enough for Dean to worry he’s crossed a line, before he feels fingers start carding through his hair.</p><p>“What you said,” Dean manages. “Before you… do you still—”</p><p>“Yes,” Cas says quietly.</p><p>Dean exhales. He stays where he is, eyes closed.</p><p>The space between Lawrence and here is heavy. Dean’s life, despite his best efforts, is one big knot, held together with twine and packing tape; move any part of it, no matter how small, and you move all of it.</p><p>“It’s not gonna be a one time thing,” Dean croaks. He can’t even tell if it’s a statement or a question. “If we do this.”</p><p>Cas pulls back to watch him, his eyes tracing Dean’s face. They don’t move anywhere else. The reality of what he’s offering jumps out between the lines and smacks into Dean like a speeding train.</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“Sam and the kid, they’re gonna find out.” Dean swallows. “Or… figure it out, and we’ll have to—and I’m, you know, I’m not. I won’t be...”</p><p>“Dean, I <em> know</em>,” Cas repeats. Like he’s thought all this through before, a hundred times, and still reached the same conclusion.</p><p>It's surreal watching someone want him this much. Reassuring, actually, ‘til the gravity of it kicks in: they’ve spent nearly two months apart, a decade in each other’s pockets, and in that time Cas has apparently decided that Dean is worth something. All those times he’s caught Cas looking at him, there’s a chance—a good one—that he was thinking about this. He’s seen Dean drunk and hungover and fast asleep; with black eyes, with zits, with razor burn on his chin, and none of that has dissuaded him from doing this. Even if it did, he’s doing it anyway.</p><p>Cas doesn’t say anything. His hand is hovering near Dean’s jaw now, his thumb darting furtively from his cheekbone down to his chin like he can’t decide where to touch. Dean’s chest feels like it’s humming; there’s something alive skittering around inside it, trying to say shit to him that he doesn’t understand.</p><p>The kiss is off-center. It tastes of toothpaste and sleep. Dean grunts, frustrated. The impulsive courage he was relying on to get him this far has started to disintegrate. </p><p>“Can you...” he mutters. “Cas—”</p><p>He doesn’t really know what he’s trying to ask. Cas manages to translate it anyway: he shifts on his feet, leaning in and closing the distance between them until it’s gone. Their noses brush in the dark. Dean exhales, tilts his head, and tries again.</p><p>Cas waits with a surety that makes it easy to do. He lets Dean scrabble for purchase on the front of his shirt first—he kisses back gently, without force. His stubble grazes Dean’s jaw. Dean makes a low, choked sound when Cas holds his face in both hands, smoothing his thumbs across Dean's cheeks, ducking his head to kiss him with slow, lingering presses of his mouth, again and again. It feels like dangerous territory. Dean leans into it, eyes closed. He loosens his death grip on Cas’s shirt and lays his palms flat instead, feeling the line of his chest underneath.</p><p>“Hey,” he says hoarsely. </p><p>Cas’s thumb brushes the corner of his mouth. Dean hears the smile more than sees it.</p><p>“Hello, Dean.”</p><p>He doesn’t really have an excuse, this time around. He’s just aware that Cas is here and aware he wants to do it, so he does. Dean chases his mouth when it’s over, seeking out Cas’s bottom lip and kissing him before he can get too far. He doesn’t want him out of sight. He wants him right here, at this distance and no further, where Dean can find him without having to reach for it.</p><p>One of Cas’s hands slides down his side, under his shirt. He starts stroking slowly up and down the length of Dean’s back. It’s like a string’s been cut, one Dean didn’t know he was relying on in the first place: he crumples forward and realizes that he hasn’t sat down in… Jesus. He doesn’t even know.</p><p>“Guess we should sleep,” he mutters, muffled in the crook of Cas’s neck. “Long drive tomorrow.”</p><p>He lifts his head just in time to see Cas glance at the bed the body was on. Dean finds himself grabbing his arm without thinking about it, pulling him back before he can take a full step away.</p><p>“I, uh.” Dean clears his throat. He scrubs his free hand through his hair. “You can bunk with me, if you want. The sheets on that thing are nasty.”</p><p>Cas tilts his head, considering. His eyes flick from the yellowing pillowcases on the bed by the window to the near-identical set on the bed by the door. Dean swallows.</p><p>“Thank you,” Cas says sincerely.</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean mutters, feeling his face burn. It’s not a surprise when Cas kisses him, but his heart rate still kicks up a notch. It settles again when Cas's free hand finds his hip; kissing him slower this time, drawing it out. This, finally, is something that makes sense. Every time Dean has him this close, something quits pacing and slots into place.</p><p>“Dean,” Cas murmurs against his mouth. “I mean it. Thank you.”</p><p>The world hasn’t ended. That isn’t to say it won’t try again. They're staring down the barrel of a nine hour drive and whatever sleep Dean scrapes together tonight won’t be enough to make it easy—but he lays down on his side of the worn mattress without a fight, exhaustion creeping into him the second his head hits the pillow. The bed creaks when Cas settles on it. Dean drags his eyes open so he can look at him, face to face in the dark. Before he can chicken out, he hooks one ankle over Cas’s calf and tugs. Cas looks tired, too. He’s got circles under his eyes, dark enough that Dean could trace them with the pad of his thumb. That’s all right. He figures they’ve both earned some downtime. </p><p>“Go to sleep,” Cas says, soft and low. He palms Dean’s jaw with two fingers—no grace, no light. Warmth flickers in Dean's chest anyway when he leans into it.</p><p>“Show off,” he mutters, and does.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank u for reading ♡ sorry if any of this is non compliant w s15. i'm on s10 &amp; i was planning to catch up before writing anything but the heart wants what the heart wants. unfortunately in my case the heart wants to be stupid</p></blockquote></div></div>
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